


Gratia Plena

by samescenes



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Archangels, M/M, possible blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2236839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samescenes/pseuds/samescenes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels, in reality, don’t have much more self-discipline than humans, and each has their vice. Brad and Ray’s seems to be television.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gratia Plena

**Author's Note:**

> Backing up old fic. Not a new one at all, sorry.

It’s a Sunday, but the Iceman doesn’t believe in the fucking Sabbath.

“Forget Fruity Rudy,” Ray says from beside Nate. Nate sighs; God should just smite him now. “I would tap that dry. I mean, I would get down on my knees and pray to God for a piece of that ass – and I know He puts those prayers at the bottom of the pile. Just another way Command has fucked us over, homes. Why listen to the prayers of the abused and disenfranchised? Not when you can spread happiness with the Iceman’s dick. I’m telling you LT, He could just bottle that shit and sell it to civilians and –” 

“Ray?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut your mouth. Sodomy is a sin.”

“Yeah, but so is, like, eating shrimp on certain days and shit. Killing is a sin, but it’s our job, homes. It’s what we were created for. Command doesn’t give a shit about that double-standard so I’m sure He won’t get off his high perch just to smite me for lookin’.”

“It may be close to heresy to say this, but I think He may have made a mistake giving you a place in the Divine Plan.”

Ray snorts. “Was that you just questioning the command? Oh, how far the mighty have –” 

“Watch it,” Nate interrupts.

Ray stops. He looks from Nate back to Brad, who is doing sword drills a few paces away. The body Brad has chosen is particularly attractive – tall, blond, muscles where no ordinary man should have muscles. It has ink painted on its back, but it doesn’t smear or fade. Nate finds it unfairly distracting.

“Yo, B-Rad!” Ray yells. “It’s the Sabbath! Take a fucking break, yo!”

Brad stops mid-thrust. He’s damp with sweat, chest heaving just a little. 

“The enemy doesn’t take the day off, Ray. That means they have the advantage. I wouldn’t expect a whiskey-tango asshat like yourself to understand military strategy, as you were too busy suckling on your mother’s teat until you were twelve.”

Sometimes Nate thinks angels have gotten too invested in the ways of humans. Most angels, in reality, don’t have much more self-discipline than humans, and each has their vice. Brad and Ray’s seems to be television. Nate thinks Ray has gone so far as to petition Godfather, their choir commander, for a flat-screen television set so the entire battalion can watch _Band of Brothers_. For educational purposes, of course: Ray believes their combat effectiveness would be much improved if they had any idea who Jason Bourne was. 

Brad turns to Nate. “Would you like to spar, sir?”

Nate thinks about orders. Then he thinks about shrimp. There’s a light tremble in his arms when he picks up his sword.

**

“This is not what I have been trained to do,” Brad says. His voice is flat, expressionless. He sinks deeper into his overstuffed chintz armchair, feet propped up on the mahogany coffee table. The whole room looks like a ‘50s housewife’s wet dream, down to the paisley curtains and wholesome Brady Bunch vibe. Pictures line the mantle, full of smiling family members with regulation haircuts and straight spines. One is a picture of a little girl missing her two front teeth, obviously caught mid-twirl as her pigtails have frozen flying around her head. There are some medals at the far end, but Nate doesn’t know what they’re for.

“You’ve been trained to do what you’re told to do,” Nate tells Brad.

“But you don’t think babysitting is a criminal waste of my skills? I don’t mean to sound like an under-endowed juvenile offender, but I’m pretty badass.” Brad pauses. “I’m kind of a big deal.”

Nate rolls his eyes. “Stop spending so much time with Person.”

“I can’t help it if he’s like a virus, spreading through your system and you don’t realize until too late it’s got a hold on you.”

“Angels don’t get sick.”

“This virus is so stupid it doesn’t know that.”

Nate snorts. They lapse into comfortable silence, surveying the AO. A puppy runs up to Brad, putting it's nose to the flat edge of Brad's sword. It whines when Brad flicks it on the ear; he looks like a grizzly bear at a teddy bear picnic.

“Just think of it as reconnaissance,” Nate says. “The higher-ups say she will play a great part in the future.”

Brad sighs. “I hate this humanitarian shit,” he says, but he gets up to stand next to the doorway. It’s the time of morning when the sun’s just starting to rise; the first rays of orange streak over the Californian horizon, but everything is still blanketed in gray.

There’s a scratching at the door and it swings open so fast the trespasser stumbles, dropping his tools. Nate hears Brad snort. Even if the man wasn’t trying to kidnap the girl, his startling incompetence does not endear him to Brad.

Brad leans down to whisper in the kidnapper’s ear. Dazed, the man turns around and walks back out the door. Nate watches him walk down the road until he is out of sight. Nate has a feeling he won’t stop for a while.

Nate looks over at Brad. 

“One day down: a whole lifetime to go,” he says.

Brad scowls. “I hate guardian duty.”

**

They get lit up just inside the Turkish border, somewhere around the 25th century, _anno domini_. Even though it’s long since buried, Lucifer feels understandably sentimental about Eden, and Command feels a victory would greatly demoralize the enemy. In some great fit of common sense, Brad’s team is on point, and Nate arrives to hear Ray shout “Get some!” as Brad runs a lower-level demon through.

It’s an ambush on their side; Lucifer clearly wasn’t expecting such a show of force so early, and the enemy battalion consists mainly of intelligence officers. Lucifer clearly hasn’t heard of Godfather’s belief in the violence of action. Or Chuck Norris. Only a few of the enemy force are real warriors, so of course Brad has to engage with the highest-ranked of them, a lieutenant Nate doesn’t recognize.

There are no casualties on their side, although three angels, including Brad, have major wounds. Brad refuses to be cas-evac’d. 

“Just glue it back together, doc,” he tells Bryan, trying like hell not to grimace with every stitch. The wound is a clean sword-stroke over Brad’s ribs. It’s not deep enough to see bone, but deep enough that the skin gapes wide. If Brad bled like a human, he would be in serious trouble. As it is, Brad’s soaked through almost an entire roll of gauze.

“Fucking cowboys,” Bryan mutters, as his fingers slip over Brad’s skin. The blood has started to run off the gloves and down over the doctor’s wrists. Nate feels like his eyes are glued to the blood, the obscene redness of it dripping down Brad’s torso and to the sandy floor of the medical tent.

“It’s not a mortal wound, sir,” Brad says, catching Nate’s eye. “I will live to kick ass another day.”

“You need to stop taking such unnecessary risks. A wound such as this impedes your combat readiness, and I can’t afford to lose you.”

Brad raises an eyebrow. “You can’t afford to lose me?”

“The team wouldn’t be the same without you. It would be impossible to keep Person in line.” Nate’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth, woolen and thick. He swallows. “See it doesn’t happen again, Sergeant.” 

Nate pivots and walks out of the tent. He spends the rest of the afternoon barking orders – Command’s absurd burst of correct protocol has fizzled out, and their choir is to abandon their post for another mission, leaving the former site of Eden unprotected while Command organizes a permanent guard. It’ll probably be another cherubim with a flaming sword – Nate hates those pussies. Look how far no free will had got them.

Before they leave, Brad says a silent prayer, separated from the rest of the battalion. Nate watches him finger his bandages; the stark whiteness of it crawls up his chest and over his right shoulder. When he turns toward Nate, Nate averts his eyes, looking into the middle distance to the right of Brad's shoulder. They stand together, surveying the barren area; the angular, broken bodies of the demons are nothing but dark shadows on the ground. Sand has started to cover them already.

“What a clusterfuck,” Brad says. 

“I don’t know,” Nate says, smirking. “Trombley enjoyed himself.”

They both look over. Trombley is sitting cross-legged on the ground, staring out at the carcasses. Every now and then he raises an imaginary rifle, making an exploding sound as he mimes the recoil. Then he lowers his hands, smiling.

“This is my worry, sir.”

“It wasn’t for nothing, Brad. I am assured of –”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brad interrupts, waving him off. Nate laughs before he can stop it.

**

They have nothing to do. Even Ray has a mission – he’s supposed to take messages to some paraplegic priest, but Nate just thinks he watches a lot of _Law & Order_ reruns.

“Maybe it’s some giant admin fuck-up and they’ve forgotten we exist,” Brad says. Nate thinks about it. It’s not outside the realm of possibility, but not much is when you work for God.

“What would you do if they have?”

Brad shrugs. “Go remind them.”

Nate feels a tiny twinge. “Really?”

Brad looks at Nate from the corner of his eye. “Yeah. I don’t really have any other skills, you know? Do you think I could join the ranks of the seraphim?”

Nate allows himself the luxury of imagining Brad singing hymns and praises. “I’ve just seen you in a new light,” Nate says, utterly serious. “And I must say, you look good in a halo.”

Brad snorts, elbowing Nate in the side. Nate elbows back, and they jostle each other for a few seconds, before Brad sighs loudly and says something about Nate’s immature ability to accept Brad’s intellectual, physical and theological superiority.

“I think I’d go to Earth,” Nate says, sudden.

“What?”

“If we’re forgotten. I’d like to stay on Earth.”

Brad’s silent – Nate panics for a moment, oh God what if Brad tells Godfather – but then Brad shrugs again and says, “This place would collapse in on itself if you were gone, sir. I would have no choice but to follow you.”

They stand, shoulder to shoulder, for a long time.


End file.
